


Baby. Brother?

by AdelaideE



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform, mollock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 11:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7890088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelaideE/pseuds/AdelaideE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A handsome "stranger" suddenly shows up at 221B, unknowingly helping Sherlock and Molly with her "fat" problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby. Brother?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a silly little drabble, written out of amusement for the constant gossip of Hiddleston joining the cast. Also, my baby came a bit early, raising a newborn is INCREDIBLY HARDER than I thought (seriously, how have we survived as a species?!), and I've been struggling with the baby blues...So I'm posting this piece of nonsense as a way to distract myself. 
> 
> Please send feedback. Or a real life Mary Poppins.

“I suspect you already know what we’re going to say—“

“I’m fat,” Molly said, more joyfully than expected.

John sighed.  Mary sighed.  Normally, he did not require his wife’s assistance when it came to diagnosing patients, but needs must.

“You’re not fat,” they repeated tiredly.  They had said so for weeks now, but even in this professional capacity, Molly did not believe it.

“No, no,” Sherlock contradicted confidently from where he sat next to Molly on the examination table.  “She is.  Terribly fluffy.”

Molly nodded with an absurd grin.

“If you were simply ‘fat,’” Mary began rationally, “then why have you been taking pregnancy supplements for months?”

“To improve the quality of my hair and nails,” Molly replied with an unwavering smile.  Sherlock, as if totally unaware of their audience, absently reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.  The specialist registrar beamed sunnily at him, and did not seem disheartened when Holmes only responded with a small, grave quirk of his lips.  If the Watsons didn’t know better, they would say he appeared a bit concerned.

“That is a happy byproduct and you know it,” John cut in after clearing his throat to draw their attention once more.  “And where’s your period been, then?”

“John, you know as well as I that excessive weight gain can cause irregular menstrual cyc—“ Molly said just as Sherlock began with, “Travel and stress are often the culprit to missed peri—“

“Your weight gain is a fetus and you only traveled to Cornwall for a weekend!” Mary expostulated.  “And I’ve never seen ‘stress’ make a woman look so radiantly chuffed.”

“Look, I don’t have time for this.  I’ve two children waiting for us at home who, oddly enough, have a better grasp of reality than you lot,” John decided, quite fed up.  “Fat or not, you’re going to need to take it easy soon.  It looks like your morning sickness—“

“I’ve had the most rotten luck with stomach viruses,” Molly corrected to Mary.

“For months at a time, love?” Mary pointed out helplessly.  Molly shrugged, and Sherlock pointed out it wasn’t impossible, just improbable.

John continued over them.  “—has mostly faded. Avoid sushi, wet cheeses, get plenty of rest, and in five months’ time, your ‘fat’ will come out with hair, limbs, and probably a strong sense of denial.”

“Ugh,” Molly emitted with a shudder as she pulled on her coat.  Sherlock helped her, looking at her with a little worry, whilst the Watsons viewed her with rising hope.  Did her reaction mean she was going to accept the fact that she was—

“That’s a horrid image, a blob of fat with a face and hair.”

“Though that Doctor What episode you watched last night made sentient lumps of fat appear quite cute,” Sherlock reminded her glibly as he whipped his blue scarf around her neck.

“Doctor Who.  And that’s true.  I wouldn’t mind meeting an Adipose—“

“Get out,” John said flatly with a whip of his finger, pointing to the door. 

“He’s in a mood, isn’t he?” Molly remarked to her husband as they made their way home.

“I’ve made similar remarks over the years but now I’m coming to terms with the fact that he might be just that difficult to get on with,” Sherlock sighed with a shrug.  “Still…we’ve always considered him an exceptional doctor.”

“Even exceptional doctors make mistakes,” Molly huffed.  “I went to school just as John did and I…I…”

“You?”

“Just a mo, love,” she requested politely, panting slightly in between words.  Without further ado, his hand raised for a taxi.  Naturally, despite the fact that it was not a busy road, one pulled up within seconds. 

“Big breakfast,” Molly excused herself breathlessly as they settled in.  “It’s weighing heavily on my…erm…lungs.”

“Food has a natural habit of weighing…upwards,” Sherlock agreed stalwartly.  He turned away then, but Molly could see his dissatisfied expression in the reflection of the window.  Try as they might to disbelieve the circumstances, it was difficult even for somebody as stubborn as her husband to deny the laws of physics.

This had been going on for some time.  Well—four months to be exact.  Her tastes changed, her habits changed, her emotions—

Bless, if Sherlock believed her feelings “excessive” before, these past few months had positively obliterated his emotional limits.

But it didn’t mean what people—medical professionals—kept saying that it meant!  Queen Mary I thought she was, but she wasn’t, and heaps of Protestants died because of her nasty moods.  Molly was no historian, but she was pretty sure that that monarch’s mistaken self-diagnosis resulted in a bad time all around.  So…they were just avoiding murderous catastrophes, she and Sherlock.

They were quiet, lost in their own thoughts, all the way up to 221B.  In fact, they were so distracted that it took ten full seconds to notice the wet naked man in their kitchen.  Molly was digging her mobile from the depths of her purse and Sherlock looked ready to summon some probably ill-worded comfort when somebody spoke.

“Jesus, I’d have killed you seventeen times if I wanted,” he said laughingly.

Sherlock turned sharply to the kitchen and Molly jumped, spilling her purse and all its contents except for the phone in her hand.

The man had his arms outstretched for a hug that never came as they cautiously approached the kitchen.  If anything, Sherlock stiffened, and unsubtly stepped so that Molly was a bit behind him.

The man was a few inches taller than Sherlock, with light brown, curly short hair, and an easy, friendly face.  He had a sharp nose and high cheekbones.  Large, light blue eyes shone benevolently at them.  His lips, while thin, were expressive, and the easy smile he bestowed upon them showed even, white teeth. 

It was a narrow face, but a broad body.  Molly’s eyes involuntarily wandered down to take in the wide shoulders, the unfairly defined torso that tapered down to the tiniest waist she had seen on a man.  Oh, goodness, the hiplines!  Then there was a happy trail of hair from his navel downwards.

He wasn’t naked—not fully.  There was a towel that hung low on those hips.  Molly wanted it to fall.  She had never wanted something so badly in her entire life.

“What are you doing here, uninvited?” Sherlock demanded, not doing his usual Deducting-the-Answer-before-I-ask it routine.  In fact, he appeared quite caught off kilter.  “Molly and I do not appreciate—“  A quick glance at her made him frown, and Sherlock interrupted himself to instruct his wife, “Inhale.”

Molly took in huge gulps of air.

“Sorry to correct you, Sherlock, but I _was_ invited,” the man said gleefully, and then directed his attention to Molly as well.  “Exhale.”

A grateful whoosh filled the silence.

“By whom?  Only mum and dad would willingly invite you anywhere, and certainly not to my home.  Inhale again, darling.”

Molly remembered to do so, eyes still wide as the stranger’s shrug and turn to place his mug in the sink made the damp towel slide a bit lower.

This would be the ideal time to develop telekinesis.  She began to fervently pray for the ability.

“Yes, it was them, but when I showed up they weren’t home.  Exhale, love.”

“When did they invite you?  Inha—dammit, Molly!”

“I might have been a bit late in responding to their request,” he admitted sheepishly.  “Exhale—honestly, Sherlock, I thought you’d marry somebody a bit smarter than this.  How does she breathe when no one’s around?”

An angry red flush crept up from under Sherlock’s collar, but Molly didn’t mind because the man winked at her and took away all the insult in his comment.  She was vaguely reminded of the Steve Martin version of The Pink Panther.  “ _Stop browbeating her!  Can’t you see she is beautiful?”_

There was a pause during which Molly seized control of her breathing once more—she wanted to show the beautiful man that she was very skilled at it—and the intruder clucked his tongue reprovingly.

“Really Sherlock?  No introduction at all?”

“Hardly necessary considering yours an acquaintance she would do well to avoid,” Sherlock snapped bitingly as the man strode forward.

“Hello Molly,” he said, voice seeming angelically gentle in contrast to Sherlock’s ferociously hard tone.  “I’m Sherrinford Holmes, the baby brother.”

“Baby.  Brother.”  In her shock, Molly could only parrot back words dumbly. 

“Don’t mind Sir Grumps’ advice.  I look forward to getting to know my new sister.”

“I…” she struggled to find her voice.  “I…I hug my sister,” Molly informed him faintly.  “When I see her.  It’s a very common familial greeting.  Hugging.”

Sherrinford snorted, but fondly.  “Not in this family.  But I like it.  Come here, you.”

The response Molly emitted couldn’t be classified as an English word, per se, nor a word of any known language.  To be truthful, she rather thought she blissfully bleated as that damp, strong, muscular body pulled her away from Sherlock and drew her in a tight embrace.

Sherlock sighed loudly.  “If you’re quite done trying to get a leg over?”

“Oh Sherlock, he’s not…” Molly tittered.  Somewhere, deep inside, Sane Molly was mortified.  She hadn’t tittered like this in ages. 

But, lately, her body felt like it could burst into flames at the slightest provocation, so much so that Sherlock was looking noticeably fatigued in the mornings due to her irresistible advances the nights before.  So, to drop this gorgeous specimen in her kitchen, in nothing but a towel…well, Molly would like to see any other woman avoid having a great horn for him.

“No, he’s not, but his ploys for attention are still pathetic,” Sherlock barked, drawing her close to him once more with a firm grip on her elbow.  “Ford!  Put some clothes on and come back here to explain yourself within the next three minutes, or I will thrash you within a millimeter of your life!”

Sherrinford mockingly saluted before marching back down to Sherlock’s room. 

Even though the move made the towel drop lower and lower, so much so that, had this been an American television programme, some parts would have been pixelated, Molly’s eyes were fastened on her husband.  Her lips curved admiringly, and Sherlock, considering her recent amorous attentions to the parasitic sibling, was skeptical of the reason.

“What?” he demanded as he undid the scarf and unbuttoned her coat.

“You sounded so…authoritative,” she noticed, smile growing wider. 

Actually, the word that came to mind was ‘fatherly,’ but Molly did not want to worsen the mood.

“Somebody ought to be when it comes to that horse’s ass,” Sherlock groused as he put up their coats.  Molly smiled but said nothing as he swiftly tidied the mess she made when she spilled her purse. 

Absently, he steered her to a chair as he looked into their fridge.  “I’m willing to wager he’s here for money, or a diplomatic pardon in some far off nation in which he’s caused an international kerfuffle.  And look!”  He swung the door of their fridge wide open for her view.  “Half of our food’s already gone!  We only left the flat two hours ago!”

“Sherlock,” she began soothingly.  “Sit down.”

“I will not sit down!  He’s probably sat his balls on every—as a matter of fact, Molly, get up.  I need to disinfect the chairs, no the flat—hell, the entire building.”

“Such a drama queen,” Sherrinford sighed as he strolled to them.  Molly bit her lip and was glad she kept her seat, for her knees would have surely given way at his appearance.  Of course.  That aubergine shirt.  And jeans.  Was he wearing Sherlock’s pants as well?  He didn’t seem the type.  That meant he was going commando.

She was going to melt in a pile of womanly goo, that’s what she was going to do. 

“You don’t mind if I wear these, do you?  I had to arrive in a bit of a hurry, so no time to pack.”

“So nice of you to ask permission after you’re already slipped into them.  Really, very considerate.”

Lord, Molly never thought she’d see the day when Sherlock was chiding somebody on their lack of manners.  It must be a Holmes family habit, to request vital permission or provide important information as an afterthought.  In fact…

“You own jeans?” Molly demanded, momentarily distracted.  “How could you not tell me you have jeans?”

Both Holmes seemed stunned at her passionate asking. 

“We’ve known each other for years, we’ve been married for god’s sake, and I’m just now finding out you have jeans?  What else?  What else Sherlock?  Do you have a hidden pair of overalls as well?”

“My god she’s serious about your wardrobe,” Sherrinford murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

“Read between the lines, you idiot,” Sherlock murmured back.

“Here I was, thinking that I was someone special to you.  That we had no secrets!  Does John know, then?  About the jeans.”

“No Molly, John does not know about my jeans,” Sherlock sighed as he leaned back against the counter.  He had been dealing with these mood swings for ages, and had learned there was no reasoning with his normally rational Molly.  “It’s dangerous to speak of Sherrinford,” he tried to inform her sternly.  There was something about the way he said it, as if by rote, that made Molly pause.

But then Sherrinford nodded in agreement, and for some reason, the movement infuriated her.

“Tell her to calm down,” Sherrinford advised quietly as Molly worked herself into a lather about “surprise socks.”

Sherlock mentally smirked, while outwardly he pretended to treat this suggestion as a world-changing plan.  “Yes,” he agreed enthusiastically, “that should work.  You do it.”

If Molly’s words had explosive capabilities, Sherrinford Holmes could have considered himself well and truly nuked.

Sherrinford’s suggestion of “Calm down, beautiful” might have been received better if he was still naked and Molly wasn’t…fat.  But he wasn’t, and she was, and the ensuing combination of truly impressive swearing and bodily threats was so loud and terrifying that Mrs. Hudson scurried upstairs in no time.

“Is everybo—oh!  Hello Sherrinford!  You didn’t tell me you were in town!”

“Mrs. Hudson knows?”

“Oh, it’s dangerous to speak of Sherrinford,” the landlady told her solemnly.

“Finally!  Somebody’s happy to see me!”

 “Oh for the love of—Mrs. Hudson, get out!“

Surprisingly, the landlady obeyed without a cross word, and Sherlock decided to push his luck.  “Sherrinford, jump out the window!”

“Sherlock!” Molly scolded.  She normally would’ve let his childish bullying slide if not for the fact that Sherrinford, either caught up in the moment or simply reverting to juvenile obedience to his brother, took two steps towards the window before he remembered himself, and shook his fist menacingly at the older sibling. 

“Yeah, Sherlock!” his little brother repeated in the same tone.  “You’re an inconsiderate git!  You don’t even tell your wife about your brother, and you don’t even tell your brother about your baby!”

“Sherrinford!” Molly screeched.  She shot to her feet and began pinching his arms as painfully as she could manage.  “I’m just fat!”

“What?  Are you serious?”  Sherrinford easily captured Molly’s hands in his own, and looked over her head to address Sherlock.  “Is she serious?”

“She is…just…”

“But she’s clearly—oh my god.  You’re joking.”  Sherrinford released Molly and stepped back to observe them with a gleeful expression, scratching his chin thoughtfully.  “Are you two…scared?”

“That’s the most absurd suggestion I’ve ever heard—“

“What’s to be scared about a baby?  I can defeat a baby in two seconds!  Have you seen their hand-eye coordination?”  Sherlock offered in rapid fire as he began to pace.  The youngest Holmes brother and Molly took a moment to frown at the consulting detective’s violent way of thinking.

“Why are you bloody baby-proofing the flat if you don’t think you’re having a baby?” Sherrinford pointed out, raising his voice.  It was clear he was quite annoyed; only he was allowed to be this idiotic when in the presence of his brothers.  He gestured to an electrical socket, which now had a plastic covering.  “It’s premature, by the way,” Ford added, maddeningly condescending.  “You needn’t worry about it until it becomes mobile.”

“Toby, my cat,” Molly offered pathetically.  “I was afraid that he’d…um…lick them, so I just bought…”

“I need you to stop talking now,” Sherrinford suggested flatly, not unlike John’s earlier intolerant attitude.  Molly deflated miserably and chose a banana from the fruit bowl on the table.  As she peeled it, Sherlock, equally glum, wordlessly fetched her a glass of water and set it at her elbow.  Then they passed the fruit from one to another, alternating bites, for in her state, Molly only could eat half a banana.

“Well, it’s a good thing I came,” the hated sibling declared in the ensuing silence.  “For if I hadn’t, you two wouldn’t acknowledge Molly’s condition, and nobody would ever know about Sherlock’s jeans.  Metaphors,” he added in a whisper to Sherlock.  “Jeans is a metaphor.”

“You’re an irredeemable fuckwit,” Sherlock whispered back.  Molly surprised herself by giggling.  Sherlock and Sherrinford, pleased to have her approaching sanity again, grinned at one another.

“Sherrinford,” she said as she ate.  “That’s an unusual name.”

“No more than Sherlock,” he replied with a shrug.  He picked up an apple from the fruit bowl and crunched into it.  “I go by Ford most of the time,” he added, mouth full, “just to avoid questions.”

“That, and he couldn’t correctly spell it until he was thirteen,” Sherlock added snidely.  Sherrinford showed him a rude finger.  Molly waved the quibble away.

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty nine.  I wasn’t what you’d call a planned baby.”

“We should’ve named you ‘Oops.’”

“Like we should’ve named you Arse-Face?”

“You weren’t even born, you moron, you can’t say ‘we.’”

“Oh good,” a newcomer drawled in a bored tone.  “I was so hoping I hadn’t missed the reminiscing.”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded of his elder brother, who strolled and sat opposite Molly.  Then, with that faint air of disgust he never could shake off, he chose a mandarin from the fruit bowl and began peeling it meticulously.

“I was summoned.”

Sherlock turned a livid gaze to his little brother, who appeared genuinely startled.  It was Molly who said:

“Of course I pressed the emergency button on my phone as soon as I saw him.  He’s fit as fuck, but I’m not an idiot.”  She shrugged and passed the banana back to Sherlock.  “I wouldn’t have, of course, if he had explained who he was a bit faster.  Or,” Molly added pointedly to the British government official, “if somebody had told me of his existence before today.”

“It’s dangerous to speak of Sherrinford,” Mycroft dismissed airily.  She was beginning to think their little brother was a bit Voldemort-like, in the almost superstitious way people avoided mentioning him altogether.

But the eldest Holmes continued.  “Actually, it being Sherrinford only gives you all the more reason to call for reinforcements,” Mycroft assured her in a bored tone.  “He’s not as intelligent as I am—“

“We are,” Sherlock corrected, peeved.

“But he is damned wily.  I’d liken him to a hurricane, but at least with such natural disasters you’re immediately aware of the damage wrought.  It’ll be weeks until you realise what problems he’s caused in the few hours he’s spent in your flat.”

Sherrinford straightened, set his apple down on the table, and began to pat himself uncertainly.  “Am I—am I dead?  I’m here, aren’t I?  It’s not as if somebody’s being purposefully pretentious and speaking about me as if I wasn’t present.  Can somebody check?”

Molly eagerly reached out to oblige him when Sherlock intercepted her hand and she sheepishly kept her paws to herself.

“So, littlest brother, you are presumably present because of a problem?  I assume it has to do with that fresh scar on your back?  Or is it because you left your latest love on the same rocky circumstances as you had your last gentleman friend?”

Only to Mycroft’s sharp eyes could he see that Sherlock was surprised by the scar, and the fact that he missed it.  “Did you not notice it, Sherlock?  It’s somewhat forgivable, I suppose, considering you’re most likely distracted by Molly’s condi—“

“You’re gay?” Molly all but wailed around her bite of banana. 

“As a rainbow, love,” Sherrinford responded with an apologetic smile.  “But if I were straight, you’d be in trouble.”

“I bet you say that to all the women,” she pouted mulishly.

“Literally, yes, all of them,” Sherrinford confirmed with that serious arrogance that came so naturally to Holmes men.

“And what difference does his sexuality make?” Sherlock demanded of his wife, throwing the empty banana peel at his little brother’s face as he did so.  “Need I rummage for our wedding photo to remind you of your unavailability?”

“Oh…I only thought…perhaps of setting him up with Meena, is all,” Molly answered unconvincingly.  The Holmes men did not even dignify her feeble explanation with a reply.  Mycroft took a bite of a mandarin slice and made a face.  Sherlock offered an insult about it being the healthiest thing he’d eaten this decade.  Sherrinford comforted Molly by patting her hand across the table. 

“You know Mummy will be furious you came three months after her intended invitation,” Mycroft warned.  

“I couldn’t come here when I wanted!” Ford excused himself passionately.  “And just so you know, yes, some Scotsman gave me the scar on my back when I finally escaped interrogation!”

“Scotsman?” Mycroft repeated, growing agitated.  “You were assigned to the Ethiopian team to deal with the Greeks!”

“An unexpected detour, I’ll have you know,” Sherrinford responded darkly, “and I have you two to thank for it.  When I was taken, he said I’d pay for the sheep you killed?  Please tell me that was a euphemism, and you haven’t gone massacring livestock for queen and country?”

“Wait, Sherrinford,” Molly interrupted urgently.  “You said a Scottish man took you?”

“Yeah, some bloke named Maury O’Kee.” 

“This,” Sherlock began loudly, gesturing to Sherrinford’s handsome face but looking to Mycroft.  “This is our top field agent?  He can barely remember a criminal mastermind’s name!”

“It’s Irish…the man, his name is actually Moriarity, love, but I don’t blame you,” Molly explained to the youngest brother, who appeared confused by Sherlock’s insult.  Then his handsome features grew tight with annoyance.

“You know my ear drum never fully recovered since that explosion in Manila!” Ford cried defensively. 

“Yes, but the faulty brain can’t be blamed on a mission, can it?” Sherlock retorted meanly.

“You can’t even remember Doctor Who,” Molly tried to argue for Ford’s sake, but was ignored as Mycroft took control of the conversation.

“I’m disappointed you went straight to our parents, knowing that Moriarty could have been following,” Mycroft said as he whipped out his mobile and began typing quickly.

“I just wanted to make sure they were okay,” Ford muttered sullenly.  Seeing Molly’s sympathetic gaze, he further explained gravely, “He said some very nasty things about their health, whilst they had me.”

“You could have summoned me,” Mycroft reminded him, tight lipped and clearly not pleased that Ford had been detained at all.  Whether his worry was in a brotherly or professional capacity, Molly could not tell.  “The watch, remember?  With the double functioning crown?”

“Oh yeah.  I lost that ages ago,” he explained carelessly, and Sherlock and Mycroft let out twin sighs of frustrated resignation.  It was clear that they were quite knackered of dealing with Sherrinford’s recklessness.  

Then things suddenly moved very quickly.  Mycroft’s pretty assistant showed up at their door and took the quick commands Mycroft shot out.  Sherlock rose and went to the coat closet, from which he retrieved two travel cases.  Sherrinford, much to her shock, began flitting about the flat and retrieving truly dangerous weapons from hidden compartments in the walls, floors, and shelves.

“I thought we agreed to Toby-proof the flat,” Molly shouted to Sherlock as he went to retrieve spare clothes from storage.

“Toby—nor any other small, dumb creature—couldn’t possibly have accessed those weapons,” he excused himself with a shrug as he stuffed the luggage.

“And what’s going on exactly?” she demanded as the three Holmes brothers and one assistant whirled about the flat like a well oiled machine. 

“Reconnaissance mission, that’s all mum,” Ford assured her with another wink.

But she was inured to that fruitless flirting, and she rose to her feet with an imperious look at her husband.  “And why are you packing two bags?  You know I can’t take off work so suddenly.”

“Of course not,” he agreed as he helped Ford divide the arms amongst the cases.  “I’ll just go along for intel—“

“No.”

She was little, but she was fierce, so much so that all present parties paused in their preparations. 

“What?”

“No.  You’re not going.”

“Molly…”

“Shut up Mycroft.  I am speaking to my husband.”

“By all means,” Sherrinford encouraged her, arms crossed and eyes crinkling with merriment.

Molly cleared her throat and blushed hotly.  She and Sherlock were a terribly private couple, and even family—especially this family—were rarely privy to their relationship issues.  But she knew she couldn’t evict them from her home, not in this time of crisis, and so she tried to stare meaningfully at her spouse.

“You know that you should probably just deal with the all the dangerous things here.”

“London?” Sherlock asked dubiously.

“Yes…maybe Great Britain at the most,” she allowed generously.

“But why geographically limit my skills?” he asked obtusely.

“Sherrinford and Mycroft can handle this, Sherlock,” Molly tried through clenched teeth.

He snorted loudly.  “You barely know one and you know the other too well to have full confidence in that statement.”

“Sherlock!”

“What?”

“You can’t go because…I…we’re…”

He stepped closer, and closer still, until he was standing directly in front of her.  “Yes?” he said, his voice low and impossibly tender.

Molly looked up and saw the stark truth in his beautiful eyes; he had known all along—of course, they both did, as they were not lackwits—but had allowed her to decide their method of coping.  She’d been in denial, and so he decided to join her in it.  She suspected if gave birth and proclaimed it a Virgin Mary situation, he’d have complied to that as well.  Oh goodness.  How well he loved her.

“I’m going to have a baby, Sherlock,” she admitted shakily as tears filled her eyes and began to spill over.

“Yes, Molly,” he agreed in a half whisper.  He reached up with both hands and cupped her jaw, using his thumbs to brush away the wet saltiness trickling down her cheeks.  “But not just ‘a baby.’  The best baby.  Ever.  In the history of man.”

She giggled and sniffled at the same time.  It wasn’t an attractive sound, and she might have died in embarrassment considering their audience if her heart wasn’t threatening to explode with delight.  “But we don’t even want children,” she reminded him with a furrowed brow.

“Sometimes we don’t know what we want,” he philosophically replied with a shrug, eyes still focused intently on hers.  “I didn’t know I wanted you, and look how that turned out!”

“Please shut up and kiss me.”  He did just that, but it was not the long, fiery kiss she craved.  Molly should have expected the affectionate peck he laid on her forehead, but it still made her frown a bit.

“I’ll assist with intel from this flat,” Sherlock called over his shoulder.  “Molly’s eyes are leaking again, so I suggest you all clear out within the next five minutes.”

“Does that include me?” Sherrinford asked petulantly.

“Emphatically.  Stay with Mycroft.”

“Over my dead body,” Mycroft refused loftily.  He eyed the situation for a few moments before slumping his shoulders in defeat.  “Come on then.”  Very neatly, whatever clothing, weaponry, and snacks Sherrinford desired were packed up as Mycroft and the assistant waited.

“You won’t see the last of me,” Ford promised, somehow sounding both fond and threatening.

“Of course not,” Molly broke from her dreamy moment to call after her new brother in law, “I’ll be damned if I let you keep that shirt.  Now out.  I’ve a husband to ravish.”

The three were swift to quit the flat then, leaving the three inside to celebrate the belated revelation.


End file.
